The Alakai Swamp trail on Hawaii’s Kauai is difficult and amazing

I am a long way from California. 

The path to Kauai’s famous Alakai Swamp in Kokee State Park has gone from lumpy mud to steep climbs over tree roots to janky, overgrown boardwalks in a stretch of less than 4 miles. What I hoped would take an hour has extended into nearly three, and the electric-green ferns and twisting trees are starting to cast long shadows over the damp ground.

When the sun dips below the horizon, wild hogs with big, sharp tusks will likely begin to scavenge this prehistoric volcano, and ominous rain clouds may appear overhead without warning. I’m alone — which I know is a bad idea — and slightly terrified. When I hear the voices of approaching hikers, my first instinct is to hide, but instead, I hurry to meet them and say hello. They turn out to be a couple of German geologists on their honeymoon. They, too, are slightly terrified, and we quickly bond over the trail distances in Hawaii feeling, well, off.

“In Hawaii, a 5-mile trail somehow takes 12 hours,” Sophia Meumann says. “And what kind of trail will it be? Will we need water shoes? Diving equipment?”

Despite the challenges, we all agree that this trail is one of the most beautiful we have ever seen. For the adventurous, nature-oriented, surefooted person, the (alleged) 7.5-mile round-trip trek truly has it all: dripping tropical rainforest, verdant valleys, an alpine bog brimming with rare plants and birds, and gobsmacking viewpoints over sheer sea cliffs and distant coves.

Its high-elevation swamp environs are unique not only on Kauai but also on Earth. Set aside in a wilderness preserve in 1964, the Alakai Swamp perches at around 4,000 feet and is constantly drenched in moisture from trade winds, which tends to keep out the riff-raff. The bog is inhospitable to invasive plants, making it a haven for native ones, and because it’s too high up for mosquitoes, birds that lack immunity to diseases carried by mosquitoes can take refuge here. Nearby is one of the rainiest places on the planet, Mount Waialeale, which receives a whopping 450 inches annually. So it’s not exactly a must-see for sun-seeking tourists.

An attempt in the 1950s to construct a road to Alakai ended badly, with the road-building equipment being eaten by the swamp. The wide, muddy scar left behind is the first mile of the Pihea Trail, where most hikers start their journey. Those with 4-by-4 transport can reach the Alakai Swamp trailhead directly on a separate road, but it’s not recommended for inexperienced drivers. Connecting to the Alakai Swamp via the Pihea Trail is definitely worth doing, too: It begins at Puu o Kila Lookout, one of the loveliest viewpoints in all of Kauai.

At the start of my hike, standing atop the 4,000-foot lookout on a clear day, I paid respects to the landmark’s namesake, Chief Kila. He ruled Kauai around 1100 A.D. and made several voyages by canoe between the island and French Polynesia’s Raiatea. Back then, plants and animals mostly arrived on the island by wind and waves, or by being carried by birds, and waterfalls were steadily sculpting the basalt ridges jutting out of the sea. Torrents of the Kalalau Stream carved the long, broad Kalalau Valley stretched out before me.

I stepped carefully along the hardened mud of the trail, which was flanked with ohia trees and uluhe ferns, stopping occasionally to snap a photo or determine the best way around a puddle or down a steep, rocky slope. It was hard to keep my eyes on the trail, given the expansive azure ocean beyond the island and the thin layer of puffy clouds tracing the horizon. But after tripping over a protruding tree root and nearly rolling an ankle, I learned my lesson.

After about a mile, the trail transformed from an eroding, muddy scar to more of a forest path. Boardwalks assisted me in crossing slushy areas, though they were oftentimes waterlogged and rotting, and dense foliage had grown over some of the planks and stairways. The trail did not seem maintained, and more than a few times, I wondered if I was even still on it. A downloaded map reassured me that I was.

Alone in the middle of an island rainforest, it’s hard not to think about what might go wrong. If I fell or got injured, would a helicopter even be able to land here? And without cell service, how would a helicopter even know where to find me? What would it be like to spend the night here alone? I would almost certainly be rained on, and there was no telling when other hikers might set out on the difficult and rarely used trail. 

Those hesitant to do the full trail could wander around the initial lookout, and maybe over the first mile of the Pihea Trail. But I had continued another 2.7 miles to the intersection with the Alakai Swamp Trail, and then another mile in hopes of reaching the bog. Returning from that direction, the Germans help me understand that this is a bad idea. It would take me at least another hour to reach the swamp, they explain. By then, the sun would be setting, and darkness would soon follow. They are actually very worried about the coming darkness, they admit.

The decision is easy: I stick with the Germans, and we all hike back in the direction of the trailhead immediately. On the way, they tell me stories of how the boardwalk over the swamp became sketchier and sketchier, at times disappearing entirely. They tell me about how the fog enveloped them, which felt romantic, and how they encountered carnivorous plants and rare birds with curved beaks and endangered nene geese. When they reached the trail’s conclusion at the Kilohana Lookout, they hoped for clear views to the north over the Wainiha Valley and Hanalei Bay, not far from where they were staying. The clouds remained overhead, though.

Disappointed, they soon gave up and set out on the long way back. Five minutes later, the sky began to clear, and the wife gave her new husband that particular look that says, “Can we please do this?” Jonas Meumann was nervous about the late hour, but he knew the score, and they raced back for a glimpse of one of the island’s most astounding views over the dramatic Na Pali coastline.

It’s dark by the time we finish the trail and approach the last two cars in the parking lot. My lodgings are just down the road, but the Meumanns have a long drive around nearly the entire island to their hotel, so it’s a fast goodbye. I tell them they should visit me someday in California, where the trails take exactly as long as you’d expect. On the drive down the mountain to my cabin, I realize just how boring that sounds.

Editor’s note: SFGATE recognizes the importance of diacritical marks in the Hawaiian language. We are unable to use them due to the limitations of our publishing platform.